


children of the apocalypse

by emmaofmisthaven



Category: The 100 (TV), The 100 Series - Kass Morgan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Slow Burn, me @ Jason: anything you do I can do better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-08-08
Packaged: 2019-05-21 21:39:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14923308
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/emmaofmisthaven/pseuds/emmaofmisthaven
Summary: They say that a butterfly flapping its wings can cause a hurricane days later and miles away.The butterfly: Wells lives.The hurricane: everything that comes after.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

When Octavia falls asleep, it’s rolled up in a ball with her head pressed to Jasper’s feverish shoulder. Finn disappeared downstairs a while ago, saying he was checking if anybody had killed someone else yet – a joke, but an unfunny one to Clarke. Monty has pushed together a few seats to create a makeshift bed, and is now rummaging around to find blankets. A hopeless cause, probably, so Clarke sits on the seats instead, and lifts her arms up to stretch and get rid of the cricks in her neck. 

“What a night,” Monty sighs as he sits next to her, empty-handed. Clarke likes him – he’s quiet and kind, obviously locked up for some minor offence, unlike so many teenagers partying outside. She might even trust him, given enough time. 

“Tell me about it,” she answers softly before she lies down. It doesn’t make for a comfortable bed, but it’s still better than the cold metal of the dropship. It will have to do for now. 

Monty lies down too, keeping as much distance between them as their sparse bed will allow. He folds his hands on his chest and looks at the ceiling. In the dim light of the ship, face darkened by the shadows, he looks younger than his fifteen years. More vulnerable. 

How they are supposed to survive on the ground, Clarke has no idea. The mere thought terrorises her. 

“It’s so quiet down there,” Monty comments. The faint noises from outside – people shooting and cheering and laughing – drift toward them, but Clarke knows what he means. The low, perpetual hum of the air vents is gone, and with it the clicking of neon lights, the alarms coming with the opening of a hallway door. Those sounds she has known all her life, once white noise to her, and know deafening in their absence. “I couldn’t sleep last night. Too silent.”

“We’ll get used to it,” she answers with a smile. If this is Monty’s only issue with this entire scenario, he will be more than fine. “The fresh air is a perk, though.”

“No longer breathing recycled old farts,” he laughs softly. “Sunrises are nice too.”

“And water.”

“And actual trees. Remember when you were five and you were able to touch the tree for the first time? Jasper and I were–”

A screams pierced through the night, cutting him off. Then another one, louder. Then the sound of her name, again and again. 

Clarke shares a glance with Monty, his eyes as big as hers, before she scrambles to a sitting position. Someone calls after her once more, and it’s closer, louder. She falls her way down the ladder, Monty close behind her, before she runs toward the exit of the dropship. 

A loud gasp is wretched from her lips at the sight in front of her – Wells leaning with difficulty against Finn as blood pours out of his neck and shoulder. He looks pale, too pale, and Clarke runs toward him in a second, hands reaching to cup his face. His skin is cold and clammy, and his breath sounds laboured and painful. 

“Wells! Oh my god, Wells!” She checks for his pulse, even if she already knows it to be weak. “Who did this to you?”

When he coughs, blood trickles down the corner of his mouth. “Cha…” he starts, before another fit of coughing stops him. “Charlotte.”

Clarke’s eyes meet Bellamy’s over Wells’ shoulders. His are wide and panicky, and she only wants to shake him out of his torpor. Now definitely is not the time for him to lose his bad guy charisma, damn it!

But thankfully he nods at her, one sharp notion of his chin, before she focuses back on Wells. She takes his free arm and throws it around her shoulder, ignoring his moan of pain and the blood oozing out of his wound as she and Finn guide him inside the dropship. 

She’s barely made a few steps before she hears Bellamy behind her. “Miller, Murphy, grab lamps. She must not be far away.”

Monty is already throwing a bunch of stuff out of the way so Wells can sit on a makeshift table. Clarke steps between his legs and pulls his shirt up without ceremony. He winces and groans at the feabic rubbing against the open wound, but at least it gives Clarke something to press against his skin and slow the bleeding. The fabric is soaked with red in a matter of seconds, but it’s still better than nothing. 

She turns toward the other two boys. “I’ll need boiling water, and more of that tea. Any kind of bandage you can find. Thread and a needle. Quick!”

They thankfully spring to action, and soon Finn is holding a cup of tea to Wells’ lips and helping him drink it. Monty comes back a few minutes later with hot water from the fire, and a bunch of old shirts that will have to do. 

Finding something to sew the wound close turns out to be more challenging but, once they do, Clarke’s hands are trembling so much she’s unable to put the thread through the needle. She tries once, twice, until the needle falls to the floor and she lets out a curse. 

She shakes her hands twice, sharp motions to nub the trembling and bring back some sense into her. Still, she struggles with picking the needle, so much so that it’s embarrassing and she only ends up cursing herself loudly. 

“Let me do it.” She raises her head to find Octavia standing in front of her, palm up. “My mother was a seamstress, I know how to sew. And you’re too much of a mess anyway, no offence.”

Clarke hesitates, just for a second, before she steps away and lets Octavia take over. Her hands are steady, confident, as she stirs the needle through the hot tea before she grabs Wells’ shoulder with her free hand, bringing the open skin together. She curses softly at the skin’s resistance, but soon she manages to find a rhythm, slow but methodical. 

The wound starts at his neck and runs all the way to his armpit, like someone tried to stab him but he moved back at the last second. Clarke thinks back to Charlotte, with her tight braids and her frightened eyes. She has no idea how anyone could do that to another person, let alone such a small girl. It doesn’t make sense. 

“There,” Octavia says after what feels like hours. She finishes her sewing with a double knot, then leans forward to cut the thread with her teeth. “Chancellor of Earth can brag about his badass scar now.”

Her voice is strained, a reminder that Clarke and Wells are not among friends on earth. That Octavia didn’t need to help, had no reason to. She must think the same, if the glance they share is anything to go by, before Octavia looks away awkwardly. 

“Thank you,” Clarke says, and tries her best to pour as much honesty as she can in those two words. 

Octavia just shrugs. “Don’t mention it. I’ll go check on Jasper.”

And with that she’s gone, climbing the ladder and closing the door behind her. Clarke stares up for a few more seconds, before she focuses back on Wells. He passed out at some point, mouth opened into something halfway between a moan and a snore, his skin warm and sweaty. But he should be fine. He will be fine. Clarke will see to this. 

She rips a strip of fabric and damps it with water before she presses it to his forehead. The water is lukewarm at best but, as with everything else since they made it to the ground, that will have to do for now. 

“You should sleep,” Finn tells her, arm on her elbow. “Between the four of us, that’s enough to stand guard for the night. Go and rest.”

She wants to take him up in his offer, exhausted all the way to her bones, but duty calls for her. She can’t leave Wells like that, can’t close her eyes and… She closes her eyes and inhaled through her teeth. 

“I’ll be fine,” she replies. “I’ll sleep later.”

Finn hesitated for a moment longer before he shrugs and makes his way toward the ladder to move to the upper level. The trap door closes behind him, and then it’s silence. Clarke swallows with difficulty before she turns to Monty and offers him a tight-lipped smile. He returns it, and squeezes her arm affectionately. 

“We’ll be fine,” he tells her. 

She can only nods, the words getting stuck to the roof of her mouth until they choke her. 

Monty soon makes himself a nest with broken seats and pieces of fabric in a corner of the dropship, and falls asleep only minutes later. It leaves Clarke alone with Wells and her thoughts. She pushes a seat closer to her best friend, so she can hold his cold, sweaty hand and presses a water clothe to his forehead every so often. 

The sounds of partying outside fade out after an hour or so, teenagers falling asleep under the stars. Soon Clarke can only hear the forest around them, soft yet present. It lulls her to sleep too, her cheeks pressed against Wells’ shoulder, back and neck at weird, uncomfortable angles. She drifts between sleep and awareness all through the night, unable to properly rest but refusing to step away. 

She’s startled into awakeness by the heavy sound of boots on metal, the ruffling of plastic, as Bellamy makes his way inside the dropship, bringing the early morning sun and a whimpering child with him. It takes several seconds of blinking away sleep before Clarke recognises Charlotte’s braids and small voice. Bellamy drags her up the ladder despite the little squeaky sounds coming out of her mouth, high-pitched pleas and excuses. 

“Quiet,” Clarke hisses. “You’ll wake Jasper up.”

Either he doesn’t hear her or elects to ignore her, but Bellamy keeps climbing up before he opens the trap door, still pulling Charlotte up with him. The echo of his boots on the ladder leading to the second level is deafening in the silence of the morning, before he slams the door close and comes back downstairs. 

He stops at the bottom of the ladder, and sighs loudly. He must have forgotten Clarke is still there, because the entire bravado disappears for a few seconds, his features no longer smug and confident. With his shoulders slouching and his hands on his hips, he looks broken. Defeated. 

It’s as if Clarke is given a glance into an entirely different person, and she doesn’t know what to make of it. So instead she makes a big deal of waking up, raising her arms above her head with a loud yawn and giving him a moment to compose himself. 

When she looks back at Bellamy, the mask is on his face once more as if nothing happened. “Jasper’s awake,” he tells her without even a greeting, not that she expected one. That’s Bellamy for you, rude and obnoxious. 

She rolls her eyes. “Wonder why.”

He barely offers her a glare before he makes his way back outside, only to stop in front of the dropship’ entrance. With the plastic curtain falling back in place, Clarke can’t see him, but she makes up his silhouette against the fabric. Maybe it’s wishful thinking but his shadow looks tense. 

“Okay everyone, listen up,” he exclaims loudly. 

Quiet conversations die down outside as everyone indeed focus their attention on him. Clarke would admire his authority, if she wasn’t so scared of the power it holds. There is power in his words, in the way the other delinquents look at him, look  _ up to _ him. It would be a mistake to ignore it, to pretend like it doesn’t matter, especially since Clarke’s privileges already put her in such a difficult position as it is.

“Starting now, weapons are no longer allowed in the camp,” he carries on. Finn climbs down the ladder at the same moment, just in time to share a disbelieving look with Clarke. What the fuck is Bellamy doing right now? “You have until the end of the day to hand everything in and put it in the box Miller is holding. Knives, spears, any kind of blade, you name it. If it’s sharp, if it’s pointy, it goes in the box. We find you carrying a weapon, you won’t have food for three full days. You do the stupid thing and  _ attack _ someone with a weapon, you’re banished from camp. Simple as that.”

A pregnant pause follows Bellamy’s speech, Clarke struggling to make sense of the decision. She can’t find a reason to complain about it quite yet, but she knows better by now – Bellamy only cares about Bellamy and Octavia, and the sudden change of heart on his  _ whatever the hell we want _ way of life must hide something else. Something more, that might benefit him. Especially since the gun must still be tucked into the waistband of his cargo pants, making him the only armed one in the camp. A dangerous thought if there ever was any.

“So what’ll happen to Lil Murder up there?” comes a drooling voice. “Cause she did try to off Jaha.”

Sounds of scuffle and shifting fabric, until Bellamy’s silhouette grabs another one by the collar of his shirt and pulls him toward him. “It was your weapon she was using, so I would make myself really small if I were you, Murphy,” Bellamy hisses dangerously.

The silence that follows is uncomfortable to say the least, and Clarke swallows with difficulty. As if she didn’t have to worry about enough things already, now she has quite a handful of new items to add to her list. Wonderful, really.

“You have until tonight,” Bellamy barks, before he pushes Murphy away and walks down the ramp. 

Clarke lets out a deep breath, to clear her lungs and her mind. The mystery as to what Bellamy gains from this new rule remains, but she will have to deal with it later. For now, she still has to check on Jasper and to change Wells’ bandage, and that takes over anything else at the moment.

It occurs to her, for the first time since last night, that she is supposed to still be angry at her best friend for what he has done. But it’s as if the exhaustion took all the fight away from her, leaving her numb and mindless. Later, she decides, she will deal with all of this later, once she has food in her stomach and a few hours of well-deserved sleep behind her.

“Well, that was... something,” comes Wells’ parched voice, startling her.

Later, she tells herself once more as a relieved smile settles on her smile while she turns around to face her best friend. He still looks a little too pale, but there is no denying he’s in better shape than last night, even as he winces his way into a seating position before accepting the glass of water Finn gives him. The two boys share a look, one that lingers for a few seconds and that Clarke doesn’t quite comprehend. But when Wells looks back at her, it’s with a newfound determination in his dark eyes.

“Clarke, I haven’t been honest,” he says, soft, careful. “I need to tell you something. About your dad.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's so sad that The 100 was cancelled in the middle of season 2 amirite?

Her feet pound on the metallic ramp as Clarke exits the dropship. She is vaguely aware of Wells calling her name as he struggles to follow her, but even the logical part of her is silent about how he should rather stay inside and rest. That he is only going to hurt himself furthermore. No, her entire mind is focused on the crowd in front of her, scanning face after face until a now familiar mop of dark, curly hair catches her eye. She makes her way toward Bellamy with the kind of confidence that make people jump out of your way, until she’s standing in front of him.

He doesn’t pretend not to notice her just to have a rise at her. Good, she doesn’t have the patience for it anyway. Instead, he slowly turns to face her, hands on his hips and insufferable smirk on his face. She doesn’t have much patience for that, either.

“Princess,” he greets her, his voice rolling smoothly on the annoying nickname. “What do you need?”

“I want you to kill me.”

That gets a reaction out of him, the smirk dropping a little while his eyebrows shot up. “Come again?” he asks carefully, like he’s talking to a particularly slow child.

“They think he’s dead, right?” she counter-attacks, with a nod toward Wells who is now standing next to her.

“Almost was,” is Bellamy’s response.

“Clarke, you can’t…” is Wells’ useless attempt.

“And if they think I’m dead too, they might not come down. So,” she goes on, and holds her wrist out to Bellamy, “Kill me.”

He doesn’t say anything for long seconds, long enough for Clarke’s heart to stop beating in her throat painful, long enough for her to know she’s letting her anger talk for her. She has always been a little too reckless for her own good -- ironically, too much of her mother’s temper in her -- but never as clearly as right now. Never to the point of letting her anger and her grief swallow her until she was choking on her own feelings. Never to the point of putting so many lives in jeopardy just to have a go at her mother.

“Clarke,” Wells tries again, grabbing her shoulder. His touch is soft, where Bellamy’s eyes are hard. The contrast gives her whiplash. “You can’t take revenge just because you’re upset.”

She only offers him a glare. “You’re done choosing for me.” Then, turning to Bellamy, “So you’ll do it or not?”

Bellamy’s eyes travel between her and Wells, back and forth, as if wondering if getting himself between the prince and princess of the Ark is worth it or not. In the end, it doesn’t seem to matter much to him -- but then again, nothing seems to matter much to him at all -- because he shrugs and goes for grabbing his pocket knife. His jacket rides up in the process, offering Clarke a glimpse of the dark skin of his stomach (again) and the gun he still has tucked in his pants. She’s yet to decide if it’s a good thing for him to have it or not.

“As the lady wishes,” he says simply as he snatches her wrist.

He’s about to slide the tip of his knife between her skin and the metal of the wristband to break it open, Clarke wincing both in advance and at the proximity of a sharp blade to her wrist, when Monty comes running. Bellamy looks up at him, the emotions dancing in his eyes just long enough for Clarke to catch a glance of them, before they settle on a bored expression.

“What?”

“I need that,” is all Monty says, before pushing Bellamy’s hand away and taking Clarke’s wrist between his own hands. He checks that the wristband is still intact, ignoring the wild look Bellamy gives him at being pushed away so casually.

Clarke almost, but not quite, laughs in his face. Instead, she nods at Monty. “Okay, fine.”

She spares one last glance for Bellamy -- his eyes inscrutable as always -- before she follows her friend back to the dropship. Wells trails behind them, and drops in a seat the moment he is back inside, one hand massaging his bad shoulder. She ought to check on him and change his bandage, then do the same with Jasper. But later; for now Monty sits her near his working table and starts grabbing a couple of tools he found god knows where.

It’s only a few minutes before Clarke hisses in pain at the sting of the needles getting out of her skin, all of them glowing blue in the darkness of the dropship. She stares down at it, a little bit in awe. After the grim of the past few days, the meager meals and the absolute need of a shower, something as simple as little lights is enough to startle a smile out of her. Her, who was so used to the advance technologies of Alpha Station, to the point of never even questioning it.

“And that can help you fix the radio comms?”

Monty grins that boyish grin of his. “Hopefully. Give me until tonight and we’ll see.”

She squeezes his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Monty doesn’t need more than this to start playing with the cables behind a control panel, one small flashlight stuck between his teeth, a screwdriver behind his ear. He looks like he knows what he’s doing, quite obviously, so Clarke stands up and moves to another corner of the dropship.

Wells startles awake when she comes near him.

“Hey,” she says softly. “How’s your arm?”

He eyes her, halfway between curious and wary, before a lazy smile settles on his lips. “Like I could win an arm wrestling competition any time.”

She laughs, almost despite herself, as she moves closer to check on his wound. She unwraps the makeshift bandage carefully, wincing at Well’s intake of breath when the fabric clings to his skin with the dried blood. “Sorry,” she whispers.

The wound, although messy and most likely to leave an ugly scar, doesn’t look infected. It’s red and slightly warm to the touch but, added to the fact that Wells looks so much better already, Clarke is not worried. Especially if they find more of the plants they used to make that tea last night; it does look like a powerful antiseptic.

“Let’s just let it air for a bit and then I’ll bandage you again, okay?”

She’s half-thinking about checking on Jasper next, before another catastrophe happens to keep her away from him, but Wells thinks otherwise. He grabs her hand before she can escape, keeping her close more with the intensity in his eyes than with the strength of his grip.

“Clarke…” he starts. Soft. Careful. “I’m sorry, about… earlier. Everything.”

She wants to be upset at him, she really does. As upset as she feels toward her mom, who had the nerve to look her daughter in the eyes for days after murdering her own husband. Who didn’t do anything to protect her family even if she had the power to. Who ruined everything they had for the good of a fucking dying tincan in the middle of the sky. Her mom, who’s the fucking worse. Who thinks Clarke is dead now, and ain’t that something. She hopes her mother is suffering as much as she’s been, all those weeks grieving her father and her freedom and her past friendship with a boy too selfless for his own good.

She want to be upset, but the fight slips away from her as she stands there, in front of the boy who lied to protect her feelings, and all she can do is close her fists. Close them until her short nails dig in her palms, until it hurts so much that she can pretend that’s why tears are gathering at the corners of her eyes.

“Don’t,” she starts, and chokes on that single word. “Don’t ever do this again.”

Wells stands up, uncertain of what to do next. He leans his good arm against Clarke’s shoulder, not pulling her toward him but still keeping her close. “I won’t, I promise. From now on, no more secrets.”

“No more deciding for the other.”

“No bullshit,” he smiles.

She goes for a laugh, but it comes out wet and broken. Before she really knows it, fat, warm tears are rolling down her cheeks and she throws herself at her best friend. He wraps his good arm around to keep her against him, to let her cry her broken heart out against his neck. His hand is warmth and soothing, drawing circles against her back. If she closes her eyes, she can almost picture herself back on the Ark, a few years ago, crying because some girl rejected her for the first time and it was the worst day of her life.

She had no idea, back then, how easy she had it.

“You’re okay,” Wells whispers into her ear. “I won’t let anything else happen to you.”

And, for a moment, she almost wants to believe him. But this is Earth, with its glowing butterflies and river monsters and mysterious enemies. She isn’t quite sure Wells should be making promises he won’t be able to keep. But she’s tired and these past few days have been a lot, and so she lets herself believe it. Let herself pretend everything will be fine, just because Wells says so.

Clarke doesn’t know what tomorrow -- or even today, for all it matters -- will bring, which other trials Earth will throw their way. But for now, in the arms of her best friend, she gives herself a few moments of peace, some well-earned seconds of quiet. She thinks she deserves it, after all.

Octavia comes and ruins it all.

“Jasper’s awake,” she states, jumping down the last few steps of the ladder. Her boots are loud against the metal ground, and her eyes hard as they find Clarke’s across the dropship. “He’s asking for you.”

She doesn’t wait for Clarke’s answer, instead going to sit with Monty. The two of them start talking in hushed whispers immediately, a smile finally settling on Octavia’s lips. She looks younger like this. Not like an angry girl with too many chips on her shoulders.

“I should go,” Clarke tells Wells before she wipes her nose with the back of her hand. Her eyes must be puffy and bloodshot, her cheeks red, but she’s had worse days. And Jasper is too much of a flirt to point it out to her, if he’s lucid enough to notice. “I’ll take care of your bandage after, okay?”

“Don’t have anywhere else to go,” Wells replies as he sits back.

Ah, yes. The friendly reminder that they are hated by all outside of those metallic walls. How lovely.

Clarke grabs one of the spare flashlights before she makes her way to the first floor of the dropship. Her eyes drift to the second door above her head as she climbs up, her mind drifting to Charlotte. They can’t keep her in there forever. But they can’t exactly let her roam freely either, knowing her murderous tendencies. She’s a ticking time-bomb ready to explode a second time, and Bellamy’s voice rings inside Clarke’s head. Death sentence it should be. Still, everything inside Clarke rebels at the thought.

“My saviour!” comes a weak voice to her left.

She drops to her knees next to Jasper’s makeshift bed. His skin still looks pale, worryingly so, a layer of sweat covering his face and neck. Dark shadows have settled under his eyes, and his lips are too blue for their own good.

“You look like shit,” Clarke can’t help but laugh nervously. Because he does, there is no denying it. But he’s alive; maybe that counts for something.

“You should see the other guy,” he jokes, before a moan of pain escapes his lips when Clarke lifts the bandage protecting his wound. The smell isn’t nice, though Clarke guesses it is more the plant than the wound itself, and it will probably take a long while for him to recover. But he survived the night, which is more than anybody hopes for at first. As long as they’re careful, he should be fine.

“Let’s hope this doesn’t happen anytime soon.” She brushes his hair away from his face, his skin burning up against her fingers. “I’ll make you more of that tea, okay? And you need to eat something.”

“Whatever you say, doc,” he smiles loopily.

She smiles, too. He’s barely more than a child, and yet he’s keeping it cheery for her sake as much as his own. “I’ll let the hot nurse take care of you, okay?”

“You’re the fucking best.”

 

…

 

Bellamy shows up in the middle of the afternoon, after she’s patched up Jasper and while she’s doing the same to Wells. He holds a piece of meat and some fruit in one hand, and climbs both set of ladders without a word or a glance for any of them. She hears the door to the last floor slam shut only seconds later, then he’s back down again.

“Bellamy.” He stops. Truly, she didn’t expect him to and, if she were to judge by the tension in his shoulders and the way it takes a few seconds before he turns to look at her, neither did he. Nobody says a word for long seconds. “You can’t keep her up there forever.”

“You’ve got a better idea?”

She doesn’t, obviously. It’s either letting her roam free and risk the chance of another attack against Wells -- which, never happening, thank you very much -- or killing her. Or banishing her, which would result in her death too. There is no good solution. Only more problems.

And Bellamy knows all of that, if his sarcastic eyebrow is anything to go by. Except he’s not doing anything either, just pushing back the inevitable. So much for silently lecturing her about it.

“It’s not easy, being in charge, huh?”

And with that he’s gone.

Clarke blinks at the entrance of the dropship, before she remembers Wells, and the bandage, and focuses back on the both of them. Which means she can’t ignore the look Wells is giving her. The Look, with capital letters and all that. That’s the problem with your closest, longest friends. You can’t ready hide much from them.

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don’t know.”

And isn’t that a first.


End file.
